Chapter Twenty-one

Our ops through late winter and early spring seemed to follow a pattern. A couple of reasonably easy ones, then a real bone-rattler in which we would be met by everything Jerry could throw at us.

This lead to a rumour that there was an information leak somewhere. This was a distinct possibility as we seemed to run into some very well-prepared reception committees. Security was checked, special MI9 men appeared around the place, but still the unlucky break for Vents continued.1 Many targets on which we were directed, often on information supplied by the Underground and our European agents, proved real hornets’ nests. The two squadrons were thus constantly in need of replacement as planes and their crews fell in this high mortality rate.2

In early spring Group, in an endeavour to break this run of outs and to prove if there was a leak, directed us to targets in southern France. Because we did not have the endurance, we flew to dromes in the Dover or Cornwall areas in the late afternoon, spent the night and were briefed next day for targets.

As we passed out over the English coast on one of these trips, I looked down and saw an amazing sight; a real surf was rolling onto a white sandy beach guarded by towering headlands. ‘Cripes,’ I cried, ‘there’s a surf down there. What’s that place, Jack?’

After a pause he said, ‘Newquay.’

‘That’s the place I’m going to.’ There were real howlers amongst those waves.

‘Probably freeze your knackers off,’ said Bill sceptically. ‘I only tried swimming once over here and didn’t know if I was Arthur or Martha when I came out.’

Nevertheless I tucked that name away in my mind. The old longing for the feel and thrill of a big wave under me was so strong that I felt I could surf even if there were ice floes.

It was on one of these away-from-home jaunts we were directed to a station somewhere in Devon. We were briefed as soon as we arrived. The target was an oil installation in the Bordeaux area. The intention was to get to bed early and take off at first light, which meant early rising, especially as clocks were forward two hours. We were to have an escort of sixty Spits from a very famous squadron, which sounded all right; even though they were only Mark V’s their numbers should be able to take care of any trouble.

The gunners were bedded in cottages and retired to their quarters with the best of intentions until someone said, ‘Do you blokes know there’s a bloody pub next door?’

Investigations proved this to be the case. This was new to us. We later found that, as the air force took over farming lands and constructed dromes, they left the cottages and pubs, the latter being run by the owner who would be thoroughly vetted before being allowed to continue.

Someone suggested we go down and have a couple. The idea was enthusiastically taken up by about eight of the boys.

Hally said, ‘No horseplay. We don’t want the dicks on our tails. We’re supposed to be in bed early you know.’

The bar was a small counterpart of those found in country pubs all over England. A group of five or six erks were playing darts and shove halfpenny, another three were drinking with four WAAFs, a civilian in a cloth cap was seated at the bar. The erks, particularly the three with the girls, viewed our boisterous entry with stony displeasure.

‘Cor,’ said the publican. ‘Orstralians!’, then bellowed, ‘Ma!’

Ma was a large-bosomed, flinty-eyed female who took one look at us and started removing everything portable from the counter. Apparently they had unhappy memories of ‘Orstralians’ some time in the past.

Someone said, ‘Three beers, Pop.’

‘No beer ’ere,’ said mine host.

It sounded as though we were being wiped off.

‘What do you mean?’ said Hally coldly.

‘Only cider served ’ere.’

‘Cider,’ we echoed incredulously. ‘But that’s only lolly water!’ said Smithy.

Both gave Smithy a withering look at this libellous statement. ‘That’s all we serve here,’ the publican declared flatly. ‘You can take it or leave it.’

The citizen who had been sitting quietly at the end of the bar said, ‘That’s all they drink here, Aussies. The cider from this part of the country is famous throughout England. In fact, it’s a mighty potent drink, and if you haven’t been used to it I advise you to take it easy.’

‘Fair dinkum?’, asked Smithy.

‘I can assure you it’s as far removed from the cider you know as milk is from water.’

‘Here, Tom,’ he said to the publican, throwing a pound on the counter. ‘The shout’s on me. Fill ’em up for these young gentlemen.’

Neither Tom nor his missus seemed over-enthused at the prospect of playing host to our party. ‘Well, we don’t want no trouble,’ he declared.

As the first glasses came over he said, ‘Now, no skylarkin’ or fightin’. I don’t want the provos around my ears.’

‘That’ll be the day when we start fighting on cider.’

The drink tasted something like slightly flat beer, but were we so used to numerous English brews we swallowed it without complaint. Someone shouted the second time and then before we knew it, there was a party in progress. After five or six drinks Tom Hedge, a fat slob who was a two-glass drunk, was giggling like a schoolgirl. Smithy said, ‘I believe this bilge has got a kick.’

‘Most certainly it has,’ replied the farmer. ‘In fact, there’s a bet here that no-one can drink a pint of cider then walk a straight line to the door and back.’

‘What?’ said Hally. ‘I could do it on my hands.’

‘I’d advise you not to try it,’ said our friend.

That was a challenge. Hally said, ‘Give us a pint.’

Mine host was apparently not after trade. ‘Why don’t you go off to bed?’, he cried plaintively.

‘Give me a bloody pint,’ said Hally, thumping the counter so that the glasses rattled. The pint was filled as someone drew a line with chalk from the score board.

The big gunner said, ‘Here’s mud in yer bloody eye,’ drained the pint then started at a steady pace to the door, paused, and made a less steady journey back. Still, he made it.

I said, ‘Give me a go.’ It was a long drink; I had to take two cracks at it.

I made the door all right, but found the floor had a tendency to rise upwards on the homeward run. There was some controversy as to whether I had made it or not. Everyone was clamouring to have a go. Things got a little hazy from then on. I don’t know who started the fight but the next thing the bar was full of MPs in the charge of a very irate officer.

‘Do you know you men have to be up at 3 am,’ he declared. ‘Now get to bed before I throw you all in the jug.’

As we started to leave he added, ‘You’d better take this fellow with you.’ Hedge was blissfully snoring under a bench. Someone tried to pick him up and fell on top of him. Finally two MPs picked him up by his arms and heels and carted him off like a sack of potatoes. As we left, the plaintive voice of mine host could be heard declaring that he had not wanted to serve us.

I got into bed, clothes and all, and seemed to do a horrible backward dive into a bottomless pit. I could have sworn I never even closed my eyes when I felt someone tugging at my arm and heard a strident Cockney voice in my ear bellowing, ‘Come on, yer fugger! Wake oop! Wake oop!’

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, ‘Is the bloody place on fire?’

‘It’s three fifteen,’ he declared, ‘Blimey, are you Orstralians hard to wake,’ then, more kindly, ‘Been on the cider, chum? I only ’ope you don’t meet no fuggen Focke Wulfs today. You boys must have turned it on last night.’

From other points of the cottage came the cries of other runners, intermingled with curses and groans of the revellers. I had such a hangover I doused myself under a freezing cold shower.

As we went across to breakfast, Smithy said, ‘I feel as though my eyes are falling out.’ We all agreed that cider was a potent drop and was all its supporters claimed it to be. Most of us had cups of black coffee, averting our eyes from the fried eggs, turned on as a special.

Down at flight, Wilbur asked, ‘What the hell have you gunners been up to? Weren’t you supposed to go to bed early?’ ‘We did,’ I replied. ‘Trouble was, we got up again.’

‘Bloody bad show,’ he declared. ‘You all look like something the cat’s dragged in. How are you going to go if we run into trouble?’

‘I hope the ruddy Spits get us out,’ said Hally. ‘They’ve got a name to live up to.’

We took off as the first faint light was appearing in the east. Although it was routine instruction that oxygen was not turned on under ten thousand feet, I plugged in and asked Wilbur to turn it on, as it was supposed to be a hangover cure.

There was silence, then Wilbur laughed. ‘Okay, Johnny, have a suck. We don’t want a half-dead gunner as a passenger.’

We were to fly to our usual plan, right on the deck for three parts of the journey, climb steeply to six thousand feet, cross the coast, bomb at nine thousand, cross the coast again at six thousand, then get smartly down to sea level. Red Box was some three hundred yards ahead, slightly on our starboard quarter. As the sun came up it cast a dazzling golden carpet across the uneasy sea. Sucking my oxygen I began to take an interest in things. The first layer of Spits was flying at about four hundred feet, with others above them to guard against surprise attack.

Obviously they were watching space and did not see three 190’s, fighter-bombers intent on a sneak coast raid, drop their bombs and sweep in along that deadly dazzling carpet of light. The first intimation we had was someone from our box sounding the general alarm: ‘Snappers, port quarter.’ Swinging the turret around I saw three sinister shapes sweep around in an electrifying burst of speed like flying sharks and make a concerted attack on the first box.

Almost immediately our box had swung sharply to starboard and in a matter of seconds were beating it hell for leather for home. I don’t think Red Box knew they were under attack until the first cannon shells smashed into them. As in a nightmare, I saw Numbers Four, Five and Six plunge with mighty splashes into the sea. ‘God,’ I said, ‘that’s Hally and Hedge.’

The other three planes broke formation and, twisting and turning, tried to shake off their attackers. One disappeared in a smother of foam. Two 190’s, mindful of the umbrella above, broke smartly for their bases. The third continued, making at least five determined thrusts at its twisting, bobbing target. It was a masterly piece of evasive action. I thought, ‘That’s got the stamp of Smithy on it. I’ll guarantee he’s alive.’

At last the Spits tardily became aware something was wrong and started to join the fray but the Jerry pilot broke combat and scuttled eastwards showing the Mark Vs a clean pair of heels. The entire action had not taken more than sixty seconds. The surviving planes joined forces and, with a now compact cover of defending fighters, we returned to our base.

The two survivors asked for and got a landing priority, also requesting ambulance and fire wagon attendance. ‘That’s Smithy’s plane,’ I said. ‘They must be shot up. Hope to hell they’re all right.’

On our circuit we saw C for Charlie land first, skid along the runway, then slew sideways with the port wing dug into the soft earth. Four figures scrambled out and the ground crew did some good work in dragging the wreck clear.

Jack said, ‘They can’t be badly hurt, they can walk.’

At flight it was a sullen, angry group of airmen who faced the intelligence officers. Then we found all C for Charlie’s crew had been taken off immediately to hospital, although we were informed there were no serious casualties.

A for Apple had come through with a cannon hit in the port wing. Apart from this, the crew were unscratched.

‘Where were the fighters? What were they doing?’, were the angry questions. How could sixty fighters let three 190’s through to shoot down four bombers and so damage the fifth that it was a complete write-off, then allow them to get clean away? It didn’t make sense.3

I kept thinking about Hally. It didn’t seem possibly with his enormous strength and vitality that he could be lying fathoms deep in the cold Atlantic. I had a horrible feeling our impromptu party of the previous evening could have contributed to the tragedy. Hedge, as Number Five, would have been on the side of the enemy attack. Was it possible that he was asleep or dozing? Was the party responsible for the loss of four planes and sixteen airmen?

Later, the station CO addressed us and expressed his sympathy at our unexpected loss. He announced that we were to parade on the square in one hour’s time. When we got there, the sixty sheepish-looking fighter pilots were lined up and for fifteen minutes were subjected to one of the most biting and scathing harangues I have listened to; but all the strong words in the world would not bring back our friends.

Before we left for Beltwell, we were told Smithy was C for Charlie’s only casualty, and he was only slightly wounded by shrapnel splinters. The crew was, however, being kept under observation and would not return with us. Walker and his crew returned the next day with the information that Smithy had been taken to Crothers.

They said it was only Smithy’s concise evasive directions that had saved them. Both the navigator and WOP declared what a horrible feeling it was to be seated virtually in the dark listening to his excited directions, feeling the impact of cannon hits and not knowing if the next moment would be their last.

That night we had a few quiet drinks in the mess. I think everyone who was on the previous night’s party had a guilty conscience.